Bad Seed (33 page)

Cato had heard the commotion from his office across the corridor. A uniform was giving Hutchens CPR while another yelled down the phone for an ambulance. All the time Cato was thinking that this was inevitable, he'd seen it coming and he'd done nothing about it. All attempts to contact Hutchens' wife and family had so far come to nothing. His boss had removed them from his phone and email contacts. What was that about? A falling out? The bloke had been under huge pressure lately so family tensions were not an impossibility. Cato suspected something else. Like the clients of Born Free, the black PR company in Shanghai, had Hutchens erased his family from the record? He feared something, and that something was very probably David Mundine.

Hutchens had tried to convince him that he could handle Mundine, and that everything was under control. But all he ever did was get pinker and tighter and shinier until he burst.

Hutchens was now in intensive care on the fifth floor of Fremantle Hospital. In the absence of family it was Cato who'd stayed at his bedside all night. According to the cardiologist, Hutchens had been lucky. What he'd had was a warning, something that could be mitigated with medication, stents and, down the track, a bypass operation. Hutchens' phone had buzzed in the small hours of the morning.

Why aren't you at home?

Cato had assumed it was Mrs Hutchens or one of the daughters.
He'd tried to phone the number but nobody had answered. So he'd texted instead.

In hospital. Heart scare

The reply.
LOL

Mundine.

Cato now had a new project.

By breakfast time he was exhausted. Sleep in the armchair next to Hutchens' bed had been fitful at best. He grabbed a coffee and a chocolate bar from the machine along the hall and made some calls. According to the GPR results, DI Pavlou definitely had some human remains on her hands up at John Forrest so she was naturally sceptical about the turn of events and wondering if Hutchens was just trying it on. Cato put her straight, he tried explaining about the threats against Hutchens and his family. She definitely wasn't buying into that and saw no need to increase security at the hospital. They couldn't spare the manpower.

‘Where's the evidence against Mundine? This is a victim of child sexual abuse. Do you realise what you're saying here? He's also a weedy little bloke who happens to be testifying against Hutchens at the Inquiry.' Pavlou was resolute. ‘It's not a good look, mate. No way.'

Cato had to let it go.

Her parting shot. ‘This might be a sign, Philip. I can't see Mick getting back to work any time soon. Maybe this is your opportunity to move on?'

That was another thing. They were left with a serious hole in the leadership team at Freo Detectives. Ordinarily Cato himself should have stepped into the breach but he might be the only thing standing between Mundine and the patient along the hall. He'd have to organise a protection roster – himself, Hassan and Thornton – and he'd need to juggle a few balls in the air to keep the office functioning. He was almost tempted to let Mundine get through and do his worst. Maybe that would convince the powers that be to take this seriously.

When he returned to the room there was a new vase of flowers. Daffodils. And a card with a message:
Get Well Soon, Mr H.

David Mundine checked the fridge and found some cold meats, mustard and posh heart-tick marge. There was half a loaf of sliced wholegrain in the bread box. He got himself a plate and knife and put together a few ham sandwiches, flicking the kettle on while he worked. He settled at the kitchen table, dragging out a second chair to rest his feet, and sorted through Hutchens' mail.

The marigold gloves made the letter opening a bit fumbly. First, the credit card statement. He took a note of the details, number, expiry, et cetera. The list of purchases was pretty mundane: restaurants, weekly groceries, wine delivery, Bunnings. Boring. A letter from the Salvos asking for a donation for ‘at risk' youth. Mundine felt generous. He gave them a thousand bucks, filled out Hutchens' credit card details and shoved the slip in the reply paid. He'd post it on his way home. Gas bill. Phone bill. He made a note of the second mobile, Mrs H.'s no doubt. He also noted some of the more commonly called numbers. Maybe one of them would be the lovely Melanie. He looked at her photo on the fridge door. Very tasty. No address book next to the phone like you usually see. Maybe Mr H. was being clever. Next to the photo of Melanie there was one of Mrs H. and some oldies, her folks no doubt. It was by a river. He recognised the place, it was the mouth of the Blackwood down at Augusta. Lovely spot. He'd been there a few times and always meant to go back.

He went through to the bedrooms. Nothing of real interest in the grown-ups' room. A glass on the bedside table. He sniffed it. Whisky. Mr H.'s nightcap. He checked the other rooms. A study for Mrs H., the ghost of some strong perfume. He wrinkled his nose. Next, Melanie's old bedroom perhaps, or the other younger daughter, some clothes still in the walk-in. And some undies in a drawer. He pressed them to his face. Contemplated a wank but decided against it. DNA.

Mundine returned to the kitchen, washed the dishes and
stacked them. Wiped down a few surfaces. He put Mr and Mrs H.'s laptops in his backpack and left. Then he had a thought. He doubled back, found the box of wine deliveries in the laundry and selected a nice shiraz.

Deb Hassan took over from Cato by late morning. She updated him on the Soong sisters along the way.

‘Lily's not giving us anything. She's too scared of Matt, she has to keep living with him.'

‘Why? She could just leave him.'

‘For some women it's not that simple. Anyway, whatever her reasons, she's saying she doesn't remember anything. Matilda's a bit more interesting, though.'

‘Yeah?'

‘By the way have you seen those two in the same room together? Creepy. Like Dolly the Sheep.'

Cato was desperate for some sleep. He needed brevity. Hassan caught the look in his eyes.

‘So, Matilda, yeah. She reckons Matt was running off at the mouth when he was drinking himself senseless at her place.'

Cato yawned. ‘And?'

‘He hates Lily. He wants to leave her, can't stand her materialism and neediness, apparently.'

‘This is the same guy who drives a new BMW at the age of nineteen, doesn't seem to have a job, and bullies his mum for more money?'

‘That's him. Matilda reckons little sister has a bit of a coke habit and Matthew is covering her debts. That's why he's getting into deeper shit.'

‘So why doesn't he cast her adrift?'

‘Matilda reckons he's too much of a softie.'

‘Do I detect an agenda with Matilda?'

‘Yeah, she's screwing Matt too. On an as-needs basis.'

‘Keep me posted,' said Cato stifling another yawn. He gestured back at Hutchens, still out for the count. ‘Nobody gets in here
unless they're a doctor or a nurse.'

‘What about the tea lady and the cleaners?'

‘Check their IDs first.'

‘Do we have any pictures of this Mundine character?'

‘I'm working on it.'

Hassan checked her Glock and took a seat by the bed. ‘Gives me the willies being back here, like this.'

Cato sympathised. Two years earlier Hassan had been one of two guards on a suspect requiring medical attention. A brief lapse in concentration and a visit to the coffee machine along the hall had allowed the suspect to escape. But not before doing enough damage to Hassan's colleague to see him invalided out of the job.

‘Two hours and I'll be back.'

She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Take longer, Chris Thornton's all set for the next shift.'

Cato left. He felt anxious, he felt guilty, he felt very tired.

His mobile woke him. He felt like he'd only had about five minutes sleep but when he checked the time he realised it was a couple of hours. The number didn't register.

‘Is that Kwong?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's Tracey from Bandyup.'

They exchanged brief pleasantries and Tracey got to the point.

‘Patricia remembered the rest of that name. Morrison. Paul Morrison.'

‘That's it?'

‘No, mate, she's excelled herself. It's those healthy lifestyle classes we're putting on. She's detoxed and dynamite, today, bouncing around like the Duracell Bunny.'

‘Go on,' said Cato, trying to mirror her positivity.

‘Well,' she said, as if settling in for a long story. ‘Tricia reckons this Morrison bloke died a nasty death.'

‘Any details? When? Where?'

Tracey tutted. ‘One day at a time, mate.'

David Mundine checked the news websites on Hutchens' laptop when he got home. Mrs H.'s was password-protected so he'd chucked hers in the bin. Breaking news on the ABC was that human remains had been confirmed at the John Forrest National Park and that the area was now a crime scene.

Of course it was.